Page 26 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Sophia rose as well, her expression unflinching.
“She is no longer merely your obligation, if that is what you believe,” she said firmly.
Before he could answer, the door opened once more.
“Gabriel,” James said as he entered, his face unusually drawn as he gave a pointed sidelong glance to Sophia. “Pardon the interruption.”
Gabriel seized the moment.
“That will be all, Sophia,” he said.
She looked between them, her curiosity palpable, but wisely said nothing further. With a crisp nod, she withdrew, the door closing behind her.
Gabriel turned to James.
“What is it?” he asked, pushing his own troubling news aside for the moment.
“He is, indeed, back,” James said. “Not just in England, but in London. And he is speaking your name.”
Gabriel gave no outward sign of anger, though the silence in the room seemed to thicken.
“I just read as much from a correspondent,” he said. “To whom is he speaking?”
James shook his head, looking as bewildered as he was frustrated.
“Investors,” he said. “And also shopkeepers, as well as a few of the men from Mercer’s.”
Gabriel’s gaze darkened.
“Does he accuse me outright?” he asked.
James shook his head.
“No,” he said. “But he lays the foundation. Enough to make trouble if left unchecked.”
Gabriel moved behind his desk, not to sit, but to steady himself with one hand braced against its edge.
“I thought him dealt with,” he said quietly.
James shook his head.
“So did I,” he said.
***
By Thursday morning, the estate had taken on the air of quiet upheaval. Gabriel crossed the rear terrace just after sunrise, intending only a cursory walk before returning to the accounts James had laid before him the previous night. Yet his steps, almost by habit now, drew him toward the southern wall. Dew clung to the hem of his trousers, the path still overgrown in places, though far less so than it had been a fortnight earlier. The transformation had not occurred by accident. Genevieve was already at work.
She stood with her back to him, sleeves rolled to the elbow, bonnet discarded beside a weathered bench. A rusted hinge protested as she opened the side panel of one of the smaller houses, but she paid it no mind. Her journal lay open atop a crate, a pencil tucked behind one ear. Several panes had been cleared of moss; others bore chalk marks, cryptic only to those unfamiliar with her method.
He lingered a moment longer, then cleared his throat as he approached. She turned, squinting into the morning light.
“You are up early,” she said.
Gabriel smirked, glancing at her saturated skirt hem and sweat-dampened skin
“I might say the same,” he said.
His wife blushed.
